| |
| Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter went, | |
| Following the beasts up, on a fresh spring day; | |
| But since his horn-tipp’d bow but seldom bent, | |
| Now at the noontide nought had happ’d to slay, | |
| Within a vale he call’d his hounds away, | 5 |
| Hearkening the echoes of his lone voice cling | |
| About the cliffs, and through the beech-trees ring. | |
| |
| But when they ended, still awhile he stood, | |
| And but the sweet familiar thrush could hear, | |
| And all the day-long noises of the wood, | 10 |
| And o’er the dry leaves of the vanish’d year | |
| His hounds’ feet pattering as they drew anear, | |
| And heavy breathing from their heads low hung, | |
| To see the mighty cornel bow unstrung. | |
| |
| Then, smiling, did he turn to leave the place, | 15 |
| But with his first step some new fleeting thought | |
| A shadow cast across his sun-burn’d face; | |
| I think the golden net that April brought | |
| From some warm world his wavering soul had caught; | |
| For, sunk in vague, sweet longing, did he go | 20 |
| Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps and slow. | |
| |
| Yet, howsoever slow he went, at last | |
| The trees grew sparser, and the wood was done; | |
| Whereon one farewell, backward look he cast, | |
| Then, turning round to see what place was won, | 25 |
| With shaded eyes look’d underneath the sun, | |
| And o’er green meads and new-turn’d furrows brown | |
| Beheld the gleaming of King Schœneus’ town. | |
| |
| So thitherward he turn’d, and on each side | |
| The folk were busy on the teeming land, | 30 |
| And man and maid from the brown furrows cried, | |
| Or ’midst the newly blossom’d vines did stand, | |
| And, as the rustic weapon press’d the hand, | |
| Thought of the nodding of the well-fill’d ear, | |
| Or how the knife the heavy bunch should shear. | 35 |
| |
| Merry it was: about him sung the birds, | |
| The spring flowers bloom’d along the firm, dry road, | |
| The sleek-skinn’d mothers of the sharphorn’d herds | |
| Now for the barefoot milking-maidens low’d; | |
| While from the freshness of his blue abode, | 40 |
| Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget, | |
| The broad sun blaz’d, nor scatter’d plagues as yet. | |
| |
| Through such fair things unto the gates he came, | |
| And found them open, as though peace were there; | |
| Wherethrough, unquestion’d of his race or name, | 45 |
| He enter’d, and along the streets ’gan fare, | |
| Which at the first of folk were well-nigh bare; | |
| But pressing on, and going more hastily, | |
| Men hurrying, too, he ’gan at last to see. | |
| |
| Following the last of these, he still press’d on, | 50 |
| Until an open space he came unto, | |
| Where wreaths of fame had oft been lost and won, | |
| For feats of strength folk there were wont to do. | |
| And now our hunter look’d for something new, | |
| Because the whole wide space was bare, and still’d | 55 |
| The high seats were, with eager people fill’d. | |
| |
| There with the others to a seat he gat, | |
| Whence he beheld a broider’d canopy, | |
| ’Neath which in fair array King Schœneus sat | |
| Upon his throne with councillors thereby; | 60 |
| And underneath this well-wrought seat and high | |
| He saw a golden image of the sun, | |
| A silver image of the Fleet-foot One. | |
| |
| A brazen altar stood beneath their feet | |
| Whereon a thin flame flicker’d in the wind; | 65 |
| Nigh this a herald clad in raiment meet | |
| Made ready even now his horn to wind, | |
| By whom a huge man held a sword, entwin’d | |
| With yellow flowers; these stood a little space | |
| From off the altar, nigh the starting place. | 70 |
| |
| And there two runners did the sign abide, | |
| Foot set to foot,—a young man slim and fair, | |
| Crisp-hair’d, well knit, with firm limbs often tried | |
| In places where no man his strength may spare: | |
| Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair | 75 |
| A golden circlet of renown he wore, | |
| And in his hand an olive garland bore. | |
| |
| But on this day with whom shall he contend? | |
| A maid stood by him like Diana clad | |
| When in the woods she lists her bow to bend, | 80 |
| Too fair for one to look on and be glad, | |
| Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had, | |
| If he must still behold her from afar; | |
| Too fair to let the world live free from war. | |
| |
| She seem’d all earthly matters to forget; | 85 |
| Of all tormenting lines her face was clear; | |
| Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set | |
| Calm and unmov’d as though no soul were near. | |
| But her foe trembled as a man in fear, | |
| Nor from her loveliness one moment turn’d | 90 |
| His anxious face with fierce desire that burn’d. | |
| |
| Now through the hush there broke the trumpet’s clang | |
| Just as the setting sun made eventide. | |
| Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang, | |
| And swiftly were they running side by side; | 95 |
| But silent did the thronging folk abide | |
| Until the turning-post was reach’d at last, | |
| And round about it still abreast they past. | |
| |
| But when the people saw how close they ran, | |
| When half-way to the starting-point they were, | 100 |
| A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man | |
| Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near | |
| Unto the very end of all his fear; | |
| And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel, | |
| And bliss unhop’d for o’er his heart ’gan steal. | 105 |
| |
| But ’midst the loud victorious shouts he heard | |
| Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound | |
| Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard | |
| His flush’d and eager face he turn’d around, | |
| And even then he felt her past him bound | 110 |
| Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there | |
| Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. | |
| |
| There stood she breathing like a little child | |
| Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep, | |
| For no victorious joy her red lips smil’d, | 115 |
| Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep; | |
| No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep, | |
| Though some divine thought soften’d all her face | |
| As once more rang the trumpet through the place. | |
| |
| But her late foe stopp’d short amidst his course, | 120 |
| One moment gaz’d upon her piteously, | |
| Then with a groan his lingering feet did force | |
| To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see; | |
| And, changed like one who knows his time must be | |
| But short and bitter, without any word | 125 |
| He knelt before the bearer of the sword; | |
| |
| Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade, | |
| Bar’d of its flowers, and through the crowded place | |
| Was silence now, and midst of it the maid | |
| Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace, | 130 |
| And he to hers upturn’d his sad white face; | |
| Nor did his eyes behold another sight | |
| Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. | |
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