I
SING, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove,
The Herald-child, king of Arcadia
And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love
Having been interwoven, modest May
5 Bore Heaven’s dread Supreme. An antique grove
Shadowed the cavern where the lovers lay
In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men,
And white-armed Juno slumbered sweetly then.
Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling,
10 And Heaven’s tenth moon chronicled her relief,
She gave to light a babe all babes excelling,
A schemer subtle beyond all belief;
A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing,
A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief,
15 Who ’mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve,
And other glorious actions to achieve.
III
The babe was born at the first peep of day;
He began playing on the lyre at noon,
And the same evening did he steal away
20 Apollo’s herds;—the fourth day of the moon
On which him bore the venerable May,
From her immortal limbs he leaped full soon,
Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep,
But out to seek Apollo’s herds would creep.
IV
25 Out of the lofty cavern wandering
He found a tortoise, and cried out—‘A treasure!’
(For Mercury first made the tortoise sing)
The beast before the portal at his leisure
The flowery herbage was depasturing,
30 Moving his feet in a deliberate measure
Over the turf. Jove’s profitable son
Eying him laughed, and laughing thus begun:—
V
‘A useful godsend are you to me now,
King of the dance, companion of the feast,
35 Lovely in all your nature! Welcome, you
Excellent plaything! Where, sweet mountain-beast,
Got you that speckled shell? Thus much I know,
You must come home with me and be my guest;
You will give joy to me, and I will do
40 All that is in my power to honour you.
VI
‘Better to be at home than out of door,
So come with me; and though it has been said
That you alive defend from magic power,
I know you will sing sweetly when you’re dead.’
45 Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore,
Lifting it from the grass on which it fed
And grasping it in his delighted hold,
His treasured prize into the cavern old.
VII
Then scooping with a chisel of gray steel,
50 He bored the life and soul out of the beast.—
Not swifter a swift thought of woe or weal
Darts through the tumult of a human breast
Which thronging cares annoy—not swifter wheel
The flashes of its torture and unrest
55 Out of the dizzy eyes—than Maia’s son
All that he did devise hath featly done.
VIII
· · · · · ·
And through the tortoise’s hard stony skin
At proper distances small holes he made,
And fastened the cut stems of reeds within,
60 And with a piece of leather overlaid
The open space and fixed the cubits in,
Fitting the bridge to both, and stretched o’er all
Symphonious cords of sheep-gut rhythmical.
IX
When he had wrought the lovely instrument,
65 He tried the chords, and made division meet,
Preluding with the plectrum, and there went
Up from beneath his hand a tumult sweet
Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he sent
A strain of unpremeditated wit
70 Joyous and wild and wanton—such you may
Hear among revellers on a holiday.
X
He sung how Jove and May of the bright sandal
Dallied in love not quite legitimate;
And his own birth, still scoffing at the scandal,
75 And naming his own name, did celebrate;
His mother’s cave and servant maids he planned all
In plastic verse, her household stuff and state.
Perennial pot, trippet, and brazen pan,—
But singing, he conceived another plan.
· · · · · · ·
60 Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat,
He in his sacred crib deposited
The hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweet
Rushed with great leaps up to the mountain’s head,
Revolving in his mind some subtle feat
85 Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might
Devise in the lone season of dun night.
XII
Lo! the great Sun under the ocean’s bed has
Driven steeds and chariot—the child meanwhile strode
O’er the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows,
90 Where the immortal oxen of the God
Are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows,
And safely stalled in a remote abode.—
The archer Argicide, elate and proud,
Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud.
XIII
95 He drove them wandering o’er the sandy way,
But, being ever mindful of his craft,
Backward and forward drove he them astray,
So that the tracks which seemed before, were aft;
His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray,
100 And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft
Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs,
And bound them in a lump with withy twigs.
XIV
And on his feet he tied these sandals light,
The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray
105 His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight,
Like a man hastening on some distant way,
He from Pieria’s mountain bent his flight;
But an old man perceived the infant pass
Down green Onchestus heaped like beds with grass.
XV
110 The old man stood dressing his sunny vine:
‘Halloo! old fellow with the crooked shoulder!
You grub those stumps? before they will bear wine
Methinks even you must grow a little older:
115 As you would ’scape what might appal a bolder—
Seeing, see not—and hearing, hear not—and—
If you have understanding—understand.’
XVI
So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast;
O’er shadowy mountain and resounding dell,
120 And flower-paven plains, great Hermes passed;
Till the black night divine, which favouring fell
Around his steps, grew gray, and morning fast
Wakened the world to work, and from her cell
Sea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sublime
125 Into her watch-tower just began to climb.
XVII
Now to Alpheus he had driven all
The broad-foreheaded oxen of the Sun;
They came unwearied to the lofty stall
And to the water-troughs which ever run
130 Through the fresh fields—and when with rushgrass tall.
Lotus and all sweet herbage, every one
Had pastured been, the great God made them move
Towards the stall in a collected drove.
XVIII
A mighty pile of wood the God then heaped,
135 And having soon conceived the mystery
Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches stripped
The bark, and rubbed them in his palms;—on high
Suddenly forth the burning vapour leaped
And the divine child saw delightedly.—
140 Mercury first found out for human weal
Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and steel.
XIX
And fine dry logs and roots innumerous
He gathered in a delve upon the ground—
And kindled them—and instantaneous
145 The strength of the fierce flame was breathed around:
And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thus
Wrapped the great pile with glare and roaring sound,
Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing loud,
Close to the fire—such might was in the God.
150 And on the earth upon their backs he threw
The panting beasts, and rolled them o’er and o’er,
And bored their lives out. Without more ado
He cut fat and flesh, and down before
The fire, on spits of wood he placed the two,
155 Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore
Pursed in the bowels; and while this was done
He stretched their hides over a craggy stone.
XXI
We mortals let an ox grow old, and then
Cut it up after long consideration,—
160 But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen
Drew the fat spoils to the more open station
Of a flat smooth space, and portioned them; and when
He had by lot assigned to each a ration
Of the twelve Gods, his mind became aware
165 Of all the joys which in religion are.
XXII
For the sweet savour of the roasted meat
Tempted him though immortal. Natheless
He checked his haughty will and did not eat,
Though what it cost him words can scarce express,
170 And every wish to put such morsels sweet
Down his most sacred throat, he did repress;
But soon within the lofty portalled stall
He placed the fat and flesh and bones and all.
XXIII
And every trace of the fresh butchery
175 And cooking, the God soon made disappear,
As if it all had vanished through the sky;
He burned the hoofs and horns and head and hair,—
The insatiate fire devoured them hungrily;—
And when he saw that everything was clear,
180 He quenched the coal, and trampled the black dust,
And in the stream his bloody sandals tossed.
XXIV
All night he worked in the serene moonshine—
But when the light of day was spread abroad
He sought his natal mountain-peaks divine.
185 On his long wandering neither Man nor God
Had met him, since he killed Apollo’s kine,
Nor house-dog had barked at him on his road;
Now he obliquely through the keyhole passed,
Like a thin mist, or an autumnal blast.
XXV
190 Right through the temple of the spacious cave
He went with soft light feet—as if his tread
Fell not on earth; no sound their falling gave;
Then to his cradle he crept quick, and spread
The swaddling-clothes about him; and the knave
195 Lay playing with the covering of the bed
With his left hand about his knees—the right
Held his belovèd tortoise-lyre tight.
XXVI
There he lay innocent as a new-born child,
As gossips say; but though he was a God,
200 The Goddess, his fair mother, unbeguiled,
Knew all that he had done being abroad:
‘Whence come you, and from what adventure wild,
You cunning rogue, and where have you abode
All the long night, clothed in your impudence?
205 What have you done since you departed hence?
XXVII
‘Apollo soon will pass within this gate
And bind your tender body in a chain
Inextricably tight, and fast as fate,
Unless you can delude the God again,
210 Even when within his arms—ah, runagate!
A pretty torment both for Gods and Men
Your father made when he made you!’—‘Dear mother,’
Replied sly Hermes, ‘wherefore scold and bother?
XXVIII
‘As if I were like other babes as old,
215 And understood nothing of what is what;
And cared at all to hear my mother scold.
I in my subtle brain a scheme have got,
Which whilst the sacred stars round Heaven are rolled
Will profit you and me—nor shall our lot
220 Be as you counsel, without gifts or food,
To spend our lives in this obscure abode.
‘But we will leave this shadow-peopled cave
And live among the Gods, and pass each day
In high communion, sharing what they have
225 Of profuse wealth and unexhausted prey;
And from the portion which my father gave
To Phoebus, I will snatch my share away,
Which if my father will not—natheless I,
Who am the king of robbers, can but try.
XXX
230 ‘And, if Latona’s son should find me out,
I’ll countermine him by a deeper plan;
I’ll pierce the Pythian temple-walls, though stout,
And sack the fane of everything I can—
Caldrons and tripods of great worth no doubt,
235 Each golden cup and polished brazen pan,
All the wrought tapestries and garments gay.’—
So they together talked;—meanwhile the Day
XXXI
Aethereal born arose out of the flood
Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to men.
240 Apollo passed toward the sacred wood,
Which from the inmost depths of its green glen
Echoes the voice of Neptune,—and there stood
On the same spot in green Onchestus then
That same old animal, the vine-dresser,
245 Who was employed hedging his vineyard there.
XXXII
Latona’s glorious Son began:—‘I pray
Tell, ancient hedger of Onchestus green,
Whether a drove of kine has passed this way,
All heifers with crooked horns? for they have been
250 Stolen from the herd in high Pieria,
Where a black bull was fed apart, between
Two woody mountains in a neighbouring glen,
And four fierce dogs watched there, unanimous as men.
XXXIII
‘And what is strange, the author of this theft
255 Has stolen the fatted heifers every one,
But the four dogs and the black bull are left:—
Stolen they were last night at set of sun,
Of their soft beds and their sweet food bereft.—
Now tell me, man born ere the world begun,
260 Have you seen any one pass with the cows?’—
To whom the man of overhanging brows:
XXXIV
‘My friend, it would require no common skill
Justly to speak of everything I see:
On various purposes of good or ill
265 Many pass by my vineyard,—and to me
’Tis difficult to know the invisible
Thoughts, which in all those many minds may be:—
Thus much alone I certainly can say,
I tilled these vines till the decline of day,
XXXV
270 ‘And then I thought I saw, but dare not speak
With certainty of such a wondrous thing,
A child, who could not have been born a week,
Those fair-horned cattle closely following,
And in his hand he held a polished stick:
275 And, as on purpose, he walked wavering
From one side to the other of the road,
And with his face opposed the steps he trod.’
XXXVI
Apollo hearing this, passed quickly on—
No wingèd omen could have shown more clear
280 That the deceiver was his father’s son.
So the God wraps a purple atmosphere
Around his shoulders, and like fire is gone
To famous Pylos, seeking his kine there,
And found their track and his, yet hardly cold,
285 And cried—‘What wonder do mine eyes behold!
XXXVII
‘Here are the footsteps of the hornèd herd
Turned back towards their fields of asphodel;—
But these are not the tracks of beast or bird,
Gray wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell,
290 Or manèd Centaur—sand was never stirred
By man or woman thus! Inexplicable!
Who with unwearied feet could e’er impress
The sand with such enormous vestiges?
‘That was most strange—but this is stranger still!’
295 Thus having said, Phoebus impetuously
Sought high Cyllene’s forest-cinctured hill,
And the deep cavern where dark shadows lie,
And where the ambrosial nymph with happy will
Bore the Saturnian’s love-child, Mercury—
300 And a delightful odour from the dew
Of the hill pastures, at his coming, flew.
XXXIX
And Phoebus stooped under the craggy roof
Arched over the dark cavern:—Maia’s child
Perceived that he came angry, far aloof,
305 About the cows of which he had been beguiled;
And over him the fine and fragrant woof
Of his ambrosial swaddling-clothes he piled—
As among fire-brands lies a burning spark
Covered, beneath the ashes cold and dark.
XL
310 There, like an infant who had sucked his fill
And now was newly washed and put to bed,
Awake, but courting sleep with weary will,
And gathered in a lump, hands, feet, and head,
He lay, and his belovèd tortoise still
315 He grasped and held under his shoulder-blade.
Phoebus the lovely mountain-goddess knew,
Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who
XLI
Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every crook
Of the ample cavern, for his kine, Apollo
320 Looked sharp; and when he saw them not, he took
The glittering key, and opened three great hollow
Recesses in the rock—where many a nook
Was filled with the sweet food immortals swallow,
And mighty heaps of silver and of gold
325 Were piled within—a wonder to behold!
XLII
And white and silver robes, all overwrought
With cunning workmanship of tracery sweet—
Except among the Gods there can be nought
In the wide world to be compared with it,
330 Latona’s offspring, after having sought
His herds in every corner, thus did greet
Great Hermes:—‘Little cradled rogue, declare
Of my illustrious heifers, where they are!
XLIII
‘Speak quickly! or a quarrel between us
335 Must rise, and the event will be, that I
Shall hurl you into dismal Tartarus,
In fiery gloom to dwell eternally;
Nor shall your father nor your mother loose
The bars of that black dungeon—utterly
340 You shall be cast out from the light of day,
To rule the ghosts of men, unblessed as they.’
XLIV
To whom thus Hermes slily answered:—‘Son
Of great Latona, what a speech is this!
Why come you here to ask me what is done
345 With the wild oxen which it seems you miss?
I have not seen them, nor from any one
Have heard a word of the whole business;
If you should promise an immense reward,
I could not tell more than you now have heard.
XLV
350 ‘An ox-stealer should be both tall and strong,
And I am but a little new-born thing,
Who, yet at least, can think of nothing wrong:—
My business is to suck, and sleep, and fling
The cradle-clothes about me all day long,—
355 Or half asleep, hear my sweet mother sing,
And to be washed in water clean and warm,
And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm.
XLVI
‘O, let not e’er this quarrel be averred!
The astounded Gods would laugh at you, if e’er
360 You should allege a story so absurd
As that a new-born infant forth could fare
Out of his home after a savage herd.
I was born yesterday—my small feet are
Too tender for the roads so hard and rough:—
365 And if you think that this is not enough,
‘I swear a great oath, by my father’s head,
That I stole not your cows, and that I know
Of no one else, who might, or could, or did.—
Whatever things cows are, I do not know,
370 For I have only heard the name.’—This said,
He winked as fast as could be, and his brow
Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he,
Like one who hears some strange absurdity.
XLVIII
Apollo gently smiled and said:—‘Ay, ay,—
375 You cunning little rascal, you will bore
Many a rich man’s house, and your array
Of thieves will lay their siege before his door,
Silent as night, in night; and many a day
In the wild glens rough shepherds will deplore
380 That you or yours, having an appetite,
Met with their cattle, comrade of the night!
XLIX
‘And this among the Gods shall be your gift,
To be considered as the lord of those
Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and shop-lift;—
385 But now if you would not your last sleep doze;
Crawl out!’—Thus saying, Phoebus did uplift
The subtle infant in his swaddling clothes,
And in his arms, according to his wont,
A scheme devised, the illustrious Argiphont.
L
· · · · · · ·
· · · · · · ·
390 And sneezed and shuddered—Phoebus on the grass
Him threw, and whilst all that he had designed
He did perform—eager although to pass,
Apollo darted from his mighty mind
Towards the subtle babe the following scoff:—
395 ‘Do not imagine this will get you off,
LI
‘You little swaddled child of Jove and May!’
And seized him:—‘By this omen I shall trace
My noble herds, and you shall lead the way.’—
Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy place,
400 Like one in earnest haste to get away,
Rose, and with hands lifted towards his face
Round both his ears up from his shoulders drew
His swaddling clothes, and—‘What mean you to do
LII
‘With me, you unkind God?’—said Mercury:
405 ‘Is it about these cows you tease me so?
I wish the race of cows were perished!—I
Stole not your cows—I do not even know
What things cows are. Alas! I well may sigh
That, since I came into this world of woe,
410 I should have ever heard the name of one—
But I appeal to the Saturnian’s throne.’
LIII
Thus Phoebus and the vagrant Mercury
Talked without coming to an explanation,
With adverse purpose. As for Phoebus, he
415 Sought not revenge, but only information,
And Hermes tried with lies and roguery
To cheat Apollo.—But when no evasion
Served—for the cunning one his match had found—
He paced on first over the sandy ground.
LIV
· · · · · · ·
420 He of the Silver Bow the child of Jove
Followed behind, till to their heavenly Sire
Came both his children, beautiful as Love,
And from his equal balance did require
A judgement in the cause wherein they strove.
425 O’er odorous Olympus and its snows
A murmuring tumult as they came arose,—
LV
And from the folded depths of the great Hill,
While Hermes and Apollo reverent stood
Before Jove’s throne, the indestructible
430 Immortals rushed in mighty multitude;
And whilst their seats in order due they fill,
The lofty Thunderer in a careless mood
To Phoebus said:—‘Whence drive you this sweet prey,
This herald-baby, born but yesterday?—
435 ‘A most important subject, trifler, this
To lay before the Gods!’—‘Nay, Father, nay,
When you have understood the business,
Say not that I alone am fond of prey.
I found this little boy in a recess
440 Under Cyllene’s mountains far away—
A manifest and most apparent thief,
A scandalmonger beyond all belief.
LVII
‘I never saw his like either in Heaven
Or upon earth for knavery or craft:—
445 Out of the field my cattle yester-even,
By the low shore on which the loud sea laughed,
He right down to the river-ford had driven;
And mere astonishment would make you daft
To see the double kind of footsteps strange
450 He has impressed wherever he did range.
LVIII
‘The cattle’s track on the black dust, full well
Is evident, as if they went towards
The place from which they came—that asphodel
Meadow, in which I feed my many herds,—
455 His steps were most incomprehensible—
I know not how I can describe in words
Those tracks—he could have gone along the sands
Neither upon his feet nor on his hands;—
LIX
‘He must have had some other stranger mode
460 Of moving on: those vestiges immense,
Far as I traced them on the sandy road,
Seemed like the trail of oak-toppings:—but thence
No mark nor track denoting where they trod
The hard ground gave:—but, working at his fence,
465 A mortal hedger saw him as he passed
To Pylos, with the cows, in fiery haste.
LX
‘I found that in the dark he quietly
Had sacrified some cows, and before light
Had thrown the ashes all dispersedly
470 About the road—then, still as gloomy night,
Had crept into his cradle, either eye
Rubbing, and cogitating some new sleight,
No eagle could have seen him as he lay
Hid in his cavern from the peering day.
LXI
475 ‘I taxed him with the fact, when he averred
Most solemnly that he did neither see
Nor even had in any manner heard
Of my lost cows, whatever things cows be;
Nor could he tell, though offered a reward,
480 Not even who could tell of them to me.’
So speaking, Phoebus sate; and Hermes then
Addressed the Supreme Lord of Gods and Men:—
LXII
‘Great Father, you know clearly beforehand
That all which I shall say to you is sooth;
485 I am a most veracious person, and
Totally unacquainted with untruth.
At sunrise Phoebus came, but with no band
Of Gods to bear him witness, in great wrath,
To my abode, seeking his heifers there,
490 And saying that I must show him where they are,
LXIII
‘Or he would hurl me down the dark abyss.
I know that every Apollonian limb
Is clothed with speed and might and manliness,
As a green bank with flowers—but unlike him
495 I was born yesterday, and you may guess
He well knew this when he indulged the whim
Of bullying a poor little new-born thing
That slept, and never thought of cow-driving.
LXIV
‘Am I like a strong fellow who steals kine?
500 Believe me, dearest Father—such you are—
This driving of the herds is none of mine;
Across my threshold did I wander ne’er,
So may I thrive! I reverence the divine
Sun and the Gods, and I love you, and care
505 Even for this hard accuser—who must know
I am as innocent as they or you.
‘I swear by these most gloriously-wrought portals
(It is, you will allow, an oath of might)
Through which the multitude of the Immortals
510 Pass and repass forever, day and night,
Devising schemes for the affairs of mortals—
That I am guiltless; and I will requite,
Although mine enemy be great and strong,
His cruel threat—do thou defend the young!’
LXVI
515 So speaking, the Cyllenian Argiphont
Winked, as if now his adversary was fitted:—
And Jupiter, according to his wont,
Laughed heartily to hear the subtle-witted
Infant give such a plausible account,
520 And every word a lie. But he remitted
Judgement at present—and his exhortation
Was, to compose the affair by arbitration.
LXVII
And they by mighty Jupiter were bidden
To go forth with a single purpose both,
525 Neither the other chiding nor yet chidden:
And Mercury with innocence and truth
To lead the way, and show where he had hidden
The mighty heifers.—Hermes, nothing loth,
Obeyed the Aegis-bearer’s will—for he
530 Is able to persuade all easily.
LXVIII
These lovely children of Heaven’s highest Lord
Hastened to Pylos and the pastures wide
And lofty stalls by the Alphean ford,
Where wealth in the mute night is multiplied
535 With silent growth. Whilst Hermes drove the herd
Out of the stony cavern, Phoebus spied
The hides of those the little babe had slain,
Stretched on the precipice above the plain.
LXIX
‘How was it possible,’ then Phoebus said,
540 ‘That you, a little child, born yesterday,
A thing on mother’s milk and kisses fed,
Could two prodigious heifers ever flay?
Even I myself may well hereafter dread
Your prowess, offspring of Cyllenian May,
545 When you grow strong and tall.’—He spoke, and bound
Stiff withy bands the infant’s wrists around,
LXX
He might as well have bound the oxen wild;
The withy bands, though starkly interknit,
Fell at the feet of the immortal child,
550 Loosened by some device of his quick wit.
Phoebus perceived himself again beguiled,
And stared—while Hermes sought some hole or pit,
Looking askance and winking fast as thought,
Where he might hide himself and not be caught.
LXXI
555 Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill
Subdued the strong Latonian, by the might
Of winning music, to his mightier will;
His left hand held the lyre, and in his right
The plectrum struck the chords—unconquerable
560 Up from beneath his hand in circling flight
The gathering music rose—and sweet as Love
The penetrating notes did live and move
LXXII
Within the heart of great Apollo—he
Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure.
565 Close to his side stood harping fearlessly
The unabashèd boy; and to the measure
Of the sweet lyre, there followed loud and free
His joyous voice; for he unlocked the treasure
Of his deep song, illustrating the birth
570 Of the bright Gods, and the dark desert Earth:
LXXIII
And how to the Immortals every one
A portion was assigned of all that is;
But chief Mnemosyne did Maia’s son
Clothe in the light of his loud melodies;—
575 And, as each God was born or had begun,
He in their order due and fit degrees
Sung of his birth and being—and did move
Apollo to unutterable love.
These words were wingèd with his swift delight:
580 ‘You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you
Deserve that fifty oxen should requite
Such minstrelsies as I have heard even now.
Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight,
One of your secrets I would gladly know,
585 Whether the glorious power you now show forth
Was folded up within you at your birth,
LXXV
‘Or whether mortal taught or God inspired
The power of unpremeditated song?
Many divinest sounds have I admired,
590 The Olympian Gods and mortal men among;
But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired,
And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong,
Yet did I never hear except from thee,
Offspring of May, impostor Mercury!
LXXVI
595 ‘What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use,
What exercise of subtlest art, has given
Thy songs such power?—for those who hear may choose
From three, the choicest of the gifts of Heaven,
Delight, and love, and sleep,—sweet sleep, whose dews
600 Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even:—
And I, who speak this praise, am that Apollo
Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow:
LXXVII
‘And their delight is dance, and the blithe noise
Of song and overflowing poesy;
605 And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice
Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly;
But never did my inmost soul rejoice
In this dear work of youthful revelry
As now. I wonder at thee, son of Jove;
610 Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love.
LXXVIII
‘Now since thou hast, although so very small,
Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear,—
And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall,
Witness between us what I promise here,—
615 That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall,
Honoured and mighty, with thy mother dear.
And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee,
And even at the end will ne’er deceive thee.’
LXXIX
To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech:—
620 ‘Wisely hast thou inquirèd of my skill:
I envy thee no thing I know to teach
Even this day:—for both in word and will
I would be gentle with thee; thou canst reach
All things in thy wise spirit, and thy sill
625 Is highest in Heaven among the sons of Jove,
Who loves thee in the fulness of his love.
LXXX
‘The Counsellor Supreme has given to thee
Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude
Of his profuse exhaustless treasury;
630 By thee, ’tis said, the depths are understood
Of his far voice; by thee the mystery
Of all oracular fates,—and the dread mood
Of the diviner is breathed up; even I—
A child—perceive thy might and majesty.
LXXXI
635 ‘Thou canst seek out and compass all that wit
Can find or teach;—yet since thou wilt, come take
The lyre—be mine the glory giving it—
Strike the sweet chords, and sing aloud, and wake
Thy joyous pleasure out of many a fit
640 Of trancèd sound—and with fleet fingers make
Thy liquid-voicèd comrade talk with thee,—
It can talk measured music eloquently.
LXXXII
‘Then bear it boldly to the revel loud,
Love-wakening dance, or feast of solemn state,
645 A joy by night or day—for those endowed
With art and wisdom who interrogate
It teaches, babbling in delightful mood
All things which make the spirit most elate,
Soothing the mind with sweet familiar play,
650 Chasing the heavy shadows of dismay.
‘To those who are unskilled in its sweet tongue,
Though they should question most impetuously
Its hidden soul, it gossips something wrong—
Some senseless and impertinent reply.
655 But thou who art as wise as thou art strong
Canst compass all that thou desirest. I
Present thee with this music-flowing shell,
Knowing thou canst interrogate it well.
LXXXIV
‘And let us two henceforth together feed,
660 On this green mountain-slope and pastoral plain,
The herds in litigation—they will breed
Quickly enough to recompense our pain,
If to the bulls and cows we take good heed;—
And thou, though somewhat over fond of gain,
665 Grudge me not half the profit.’—Having spoke,
The shell he proffered, and Apollo took;
LXXXV
And gave him in return the glittering lash,
Installing him as herdsman;—from the look
Of Mercury then laughed a joyous flash.
670 And then Apollo with the plectrum strook
The chords, and from beneath his hands a crash
Of mighty sounds rushed up, whose music shook
The soul with sweetness, and like an adept
His sweeter voice a just accordance kept.
LXXXVI
675 The herd went wandering o’er the divine mead,
Whilst these most beautiful Sons of Jupiter
Won their swift way up to the snowy head
Of white Olympus, with the joyous lyre
Soothing their journey; and their father dread
680 Gathered them both into familiar
Affection sweet,—and then, and now, and ever,
Hermes must love Him of the Golden Quiver,
LXXXVII
To whom he gave the lyre that sweetly sounded,
Which skilfully he held and played thereon.
685 He piped the while, and far and wide rebounded
The echo of his pipings; every one
Of the Olympians sat with joy astounded;
While he conceived another piece of fun,
One of his old tricks—which the God of Day
690 Perceiving, said:—‘I fear thee, Son of May;—
LXXXVIII
‘I fear thee and thy sly chameleon spirit,
Lest thou should steal my lyre and crookèd bow;
This glory and power thou dost from Jove inherit,
To teach all craft upon the earth below;
695 Thieves love and worship thee—it is thy merit
To make all mortal business ebb and flow
By roguery:—now, Hermes, if you dare
By sacred Styx a mighty oath to swear
LXXXIX
‘That you will never rob me, you will do
700 A thing extremely pleasing to my heart.’
Then Mercury sware by the Stygian dew,
That he would never steal his bow or dart,
Or lay his hands on what to him was due,
Or ever would employ his powerful art
705 Against his Pythian fane. Then Phoebus swore
There was no God or Man whom he loved more.
XC
‘And I will give thee as a good-will token,
The beautiful wand of wealth and happiness;
A perfect three-leaved rod of gold unbroken,
710 Whose magic will thy footsteps ever bless;
And whatsoever by Jove’s voice is spoken
Of earthly or divine from its recess,
It, like a loving soul, to thee will speak,
And more than this, do thou forbear to seek.
XCI
715 ‘For, dearest child, the divinations high
Which thou requirest, ’tis unlawful ever
That thou, or any other deity
Should understand—and vain were the endeavour;
For they are hidden in Jove’s mind, and I,
720 In trust of them, have sworn that I would never
Betray the counsels of Jove’s inmost will
To any God—the oath was terrible.
Then, golden-wanded brother, ask me not
To speak the fates by Jupiter designed;
725 But be it mine to tell their various lot
To the unnumbered tribes of human-kind.
Let good to these, and ill to those be wrought
As I dispense—but he who comes consigned
By voice and wings of perfect augury
730 To my great shrine, shall find avail in me.
XCIII
‘Him will I not deceive, but will assist;
But he who comes relying on such birds
As chatter vainly, who would strain and twist
The purpose of the Gods with idle words,
735 And deems their knowledge light, he shall have missed
His road—whilst I among my other hoards
His gifts deposit. Yet, O son of May,
I have another wondrous thing to say.
XCIV
‘There are three Fates, three virgin Sisters, who
740 Rejoicing in their wind-outspeeding wings,
Their heads with flour snowed over white and new,
Sit in a vale round which Parnassus flings
Its circling skirts—from these I have learned true
Vaticinations of remotest things.
745 My father cared not. Whilst they search out dooms,
They sit apart and feed on honeycombs.
XCV
‘They, having eaten the fresh honey, grow
Drunk with divine enthusiasm, and utter
With earnest willingness the truth they know;
750 But if deprived of that sweet food, they mutter
All plausible delusions;—these to you
I give;—if you inquire, they will not stutter;
Delight your own soul with them:—any man
You would instruct may profit if he can.
XCVI
755 ‘Take these and the fierce oxen, Maia’s child—
O’er many a horse and toil-enduring mule,
O’er jaggèd-jawèd lions, and the wild
White-tuskèd boars, o’er all, by field or pool,
760 Nourishes in her bosom, thou shalt rule—
Thou dost alone the veil from death uplift—
Thou givest not—yet this is a great gift.’
XCVII
Thus King Apollo loved the child of May
In truth, and Jove covered their love with joy.
765 Hermes with Gods and Men even from that day
Mingled, and wrought the latter much annoy,
And little profit, going far astray
Through the dun night. Farewell, delightful Boy,
Of Jove and Maia sprung,—never by me,
770 Nor thou, nor other songs, shall unremembered be.
YE wild-eyed Muses, sing the Twins of Jove,
Whom the fair-ankled Leda, mixed in love
With mighty Saturn’s Heaven-obscuring Child,
On Taygetus, that lofty mountain wild,
5 Brought forth in joy: mild Pollux, void of blame,
And steed-subduing Castor, heirs of fame.
These are the Powers who earth-born mortals save
And ships, whose flight is swift along the wave.
When wintry tempests o’er the savage sea
10 Are raging, and the sailors tremblingly
Call on the Twins of Jove with prayer and vow,
Gathered in fear upon the lofty prow,
And sacrifice with snow-white lambs,—the wind
And the huge billow bursting close behind,
15 Even then beneath the weltering waters bear
The staggering ship—they suddenly appear,
On yellow wings rushing athwart the sky,
And lull the blasts in mute tranquillity,
And strew the waves on the white Ocean’s bed,
20 Fair omen of the voyage; from toil and dread
The sailors rest, rejoicing in the sight,
And plough the quiet sea in safe delight.
DAUGHTERS of Jove, whose voice is melody,
Muses, who know and rule all minstrelsy,
Sing the wide-wingèd Moon! Around the earth,
From her immortal head in Heaven shot forth,
5 Far light is scattered—boundless glory springs;
Where’er she spreads her many-beaming wings
The lampless air glows round her golden crown.
10 Till, bathing her bright limbs in Ocean’s tide,
Clothing her form in garments glittering far,
And having yoked to her immortal car
The beam-invested steeds whose necks on high
Curve back, she drives to a remoter sky
15 A western Crescent, borne impetuously.
Then is made full the circle of her light,
And as she grows, her beams more bright and bright
Are poured from Heaven, where she is hovering then,
A wonder and a sign to mortal men.
20 The Son of Saturn with this glorious Power
Mingled in love and sleep—to whom she bore
Pandeia, a bright maid of beauty rare
Among the Gods, whose lives eternal are.
Hail Queen, great Moon, white-armed Divinity,
25 Fair-haired and favourable! thus with thee
My song beginning, by its music sweet
Shall make immortal many a glorious feat
Of demigods, with lovely lips, so well
Which minstrels, servants of the Muses, tell.
OFFSPRING of Jove, Calliope, once more
To the bright Sun, thy hymn of music pour;
Whom to the child of star-clad Heaven and Earth
Euryphaëssa, large-eyed nymph, brought forth;
5 Euryphaëssa, the famed sister fair
Of great Hyperion, who to him did bear
A race of loveliest children; the young Morn,
Whose arms are like twin roses newly born,
The fair-haired Moon, and the immortal Sun,
10 Who borne by heavenly steeds his race doth run
Unconquerably, illuming the abodes
Of mortal Men and the eternal Gods.
Fiercely look forth his awe-inspiring eyes,
Beneath his golden helmet, whence arise
15 And are shot forth afar, clear beams of light;
His countenance, with radiant glory bright,
Beneath his graceful locks far shines around,
And the light vest with which his limbs are bound,
Of woof aethereal delicately twined,