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 all in fawn; and four tame whelps of bears. 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 That I may know how sweet a thing it is And having come, forget again to go! 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; All sick for grief, as I myself was sick. O Cyclops, Cyclops, whither hast thou sent 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, I, too, am something in the world, I see!” While thus the Cyclops love and lambs did fold, SONG OF THE ROSE. ATTRIBUTED TO SAPPHO: FROM ACHILLES TATIUS. If Zeus chose us a king of the flowers in his mirth, Ho, the rose breathes of love! ho, the rose lifts the cup ANACREON'S ODE TO THE SWALLOW. THOU indeed, little Swallow, Art building a hollow New nest every summer, Builds his nest in my heart, 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, 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 Pan, Pan is dead. Or lie crushed your stagnant corses "Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas," 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, At the rushing thunderstroke, would |