Thou wilt not care for that, to let it grieve thee!

I know thee, fair one, why thou springest loose From my arm round thee. Why? I tell thee, Dear! One shaggy eyebrow draws its smudging road Straight through my ample front, from ear to ear,One eye rolls underneath; and yawning, broad Flat nostrils feel the bulging lips too near. Yet.. ho, ho!-I,-whatever I appear,

Do feed a thousand oxen! When I have done, I milk the cows, and drink the milk that 's best! I lack no cheese, while summer keeps the sun; And after, in the cold, it's ready prest !

And then, I know to sing, as there is none

Of all the Cyclops can,

a song of thee,

Sweet apple of my soul, on love's fair tree,
And of myself who love thee . . till the west
Forgets the light, and all but I have rest.
I feed for thee, besides, eleven fair does,

And all in fawn; and four tame whelps of bears.
Come to me, Sweet! thou shalt have all of those

In change for love! I will not halve the shares. Leave the blue sea, with pure white arms extended To the dry shore; and, in my cave's recess, Thou shalt be gladder for the noonlight ended,— For here be laurels, spiral cypresses,

Dark ivy, and a vine whose leaves enfold

Most luscious grapes; and here is water cold,

The wooded Ætna pours down through the trees From the white snows,-which gods were scarce too bold To drink in turn with nectar. Who with these Would choose the salt wave of the lukewarm seas? Nay, look on me! If I am hairy and rough,

I have an oak's heart in me; there's a fire In these grey ashes which burns hot enough; And when I burn for thee, I grudge the pyre No fuel. . not my soul, nor this one eye,

Most precious thing I have, because thereby
I see thee, Fairest! Out, alas! I wish
My mother had borne me finnëd like a fish,
That I might plunge down in the ocean near thee,
And kiss thy glittering hand between the weeds,
If still thy face were turned; and I would bear thee
Each lily white, and poppy fair that bleeds
Its red heart down its leaves !-one gift, for hours
Of summer,—one, for winter; since, to cheer thee,
I could not bring at once all kinds of flowers.
Even now, girl, now, I fain would learn to swim,
If stranger in a ship sailed nigh, I wis,—

That I may know how sweet a thing it is
To live down with you, in the deep and dim!
Come up, O Galatea, from the ocean,

And having come, forget again to go!
As I, who sing out here my heart's emotion,
Come up from below!

Could sit for ever. Come, keep my flocks beside me, milk my kine,— Come, press my cheese, distrain my whey and curd! Ah, mother! she alone . . that mother of mine . . Did wrong me sore! I blame her!-Not a word Of kindly intercession did she address

Thine ear with for my sake; and ne'ertheless

She saw me wasting, wasting, day by day;
Both head and feet were aching, I will say,

All sick for grief, as I myself was sick.

O Cyclops, Cyclops, whither hast thou sent
Thy soul on fluttering wings? If thou wert bent

On turning bowls, or pulling green and thick

The sprouts to give thy lambkins,-thou wouldst make thee

A wiser Cyclops than for what we take thee. Milk dry the present! Why pursue too quick That future which is fugitive aright?

Thy Galatea thou shalt haply find,—

Or else a maiden fairer and more kind;

For many girls do call me through the night,
And, as they call, do laugh out silverly.

I, too, am something in the world, I see!”

While thus the Cyclops love and lambs did fold,
Ease came with song, he could not buy with gold.

SONG OF THE ROSE.

ATTRIBUTED TO SAPPHO: FROM ACHILLES TATIUS.

If Zeus chose us a king of the flowers in his mirth,
He would call to the rose and would royally crown it;
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the grace of the earth,
Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it:
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the eye of the flowers,
Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair,
Is the lightning of beauty that strikes through the bowers
On pale lovers who sit in the glow unaware.

Ho, the rose breathes of love! ho, the rose lifts the cup
To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest !
Ho, the rose, having curled its sweet leaves for the world,
Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up,
As they laugh to the wind as it laughs from the west !

ANACREON'S ODE TO THE SWALLOW.

THOU indeed, little Swallow,
A sweet yearly comer,

Art building a hollow

New nest every summer,
And straight dost depart
Where no gazing can follow,
Past Memphis, down Nile!
Ah, but Love all the while

Builds his nest in my heart,
Through the cold winter-weeks:
And as one Love takes flight,
Comes another, O Swallow,
In an egg warm and white,
And another is callow !
And the large gaping beaks
Chirp all day and all night:
And the Loves who are older
Help the young and the poor Loves,
And the young Loves grown bolder
Increase by the score Loves—
Why, what can be done?

If a noise comes from one,

Can I bear all this rout of a hundred and more Loves?

THE DEAD PAN.

GODS of Hellas, gods of Hellas,

Can ye listen in your silence?

Can your mystic voices tell us

Where ye hide? In floating islands,
With a wind that evermore

Keeps you out of sight of shore?

Pan, Pan is dead.

In what revels are ye sunken,

In old Æthiopia?

Have the Pygmies made you drunken,

Bathing in mandragora

Your divine pale lips, that shiver

Like the lotus in the river?

Pan, Pan is dead.

Do ye sit there still in slumber

In gigantic Alpine rows?

The black poppies out of number
Nodding, dripping from your brows
To the red lees of your wine,
And so kept alive and fine?

Pan, Pan is dead.

Or lie crushed your stagnant corses
Where the silver spheres roll on,
Stung to life by centric forces
Thrown like rays out from the sun?—
While the smoke of your old altars
Is the shroud that round you welters ?
Great Pan is dead.

"Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas,"
Said the old Hellenic tongue,—
Said the hero-oaths, as well as
Poets' songs the sweetest sung:
Have ye grown deaf in a day?
Can ye speak not yea or nay,

Do

Since Pan is dead?

you leave your rivers flowing

All alone, O Naiades,

While your drenched locks dry slow in

This cold feeble sun and breeze?

Not a word the Naiads say,

Though the rivers run for aye;

For Pan is dead.

From the gloaming of the oak-wood,
O ye Dryads, could ye flee?

At the rushing thunderstroke, would
No sob tremble through the tree?
Not a word the Dryads say,
Though the forests wave for aye ;
For Pan is dead.