| |
| WHEN by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked, | |
| Sentencing to exile the bright Sun-God, | |
| Mindful were the ploughmen of who the steer had yoked, | |
| Who: and what a track show’d the upturn’d sod! | |
| Mindful were the shepherds, as now the noon severe | 5 |
| Bent a burning eyebrow to brown evetide, | |
| How the rustic flute drew the silver to the sphere, | |
| Sister of his own, till her rays fell wide. | |
| God! of whom music | |
| And song and blood are pure, | 10 |
| The day is never darken’d | |
| That had thee here obscure. | |
| |
| Chirping none, the scarlet cicalas crouch’d in ranks: | |
| Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk gray: | |
| Scarce the stony lizard suck’d hollows in his flanks: | 15 |
| Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay. | |
| Sudden bow’d the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard, | |
| Lengthen’d ran the grasses, the sky grew slate: | |
| Then amid a swift flight of wing’d seed white as curd, | |
| Clear of limb a Youth smote the master’s gate. | 20 |
| God! of whom music | |
| And song and blood are pure, | |
| The day is never darken’d | |
| That had thee here obscure. | |
| |
| Water, first of singers, o’er rocky mount and mead, | 25 |
| First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill, | |
| Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed, | |
| Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill. | |
| Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool, | |
| Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook, | 30 |
| Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-pool | |
| Round the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook. | |
| God! of whom music | |
| And song and blood are pure, | |
| The day is never darken’d | 35 |
| That had thee here obscure. | |
| |
| Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields: | |
| Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high: | |
| Big of heart we labour’d at storing mighty yields, | |
| Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry! | 40 |
| Hand-like rush’d the vintage; we strung the bellied skins | |
| Plump, and at the sealing the Youth’s voice rose: | |
| Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins; | |
| Gentle beasties through push’d a cold long nose. | |
| God! of whom music | 45 |
| And song and blood are pure, | |
| The day is never darken’d | |
| That had thee here obscure. | |
| |
| Foot to fire in snowtime we trimm’d the slender shaft: | |
| Often down the pit spied the lean wolf’s teeth | 50 |
| Grin against his will, trapp’d by masterstrokes of craft; | |
| Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe! | |
| Safe the tender lambs tugg’d the teats, and winter sped | |
| Whirl’d before the crocus, the year’s new gold. | |
| Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowhead | 55 |
| Redden’d through his feathers for our dear fold. | |
| God! of whom music | |
| And song and blood are pure, | |
| The day is never darken’d | |
| That had thee here obscure. | 60 |
| |
| Tales we drank of giants at war with gods above: | |
| Rocks were they to look on, and earth climb’d air! | |
| Tales of search for simples, and those who sought of love | |
| Ease because the creature was all too fair. | |
| Pleasant ran our thinking that while our work was good, | 65 |
| Sure as fruits for sweat would the praise come fast. | |
| He that wrestled stoutest and tamed the billow-brood | |
| Danced in rings with girls, like a sail-flapp’d mast. | |
| God! of whom music | |
| And song and blood are pure, | 70 |
| The day is never darken’d | |
| That had thee here obscure. | |
| |
| Lo, the herb of healing, when once the herb is known, | |
| Shines in shady woods bright as new-sprung flame, | |
| Ere the string was tighten’d we heard the mellow tone, | 75 |
| After he had taught how the sweet sounds came. | |
| Stretch’d about his feet, labour done, ’twas as you see | |
| Red pomegranates tumble and burst hard rind. | |
| So began contention to give delight and be | |
| Excellent in things aim’d to make life kind. | 80 |
| God! of whom music | |
| And song and blood are pure, | |
| The day is never darken’d | |
| That had thee here obscure. | |
| |
| You with shelly horns, rams! and, promontory goats, | 85 |
| You whose browsing beards dip in coldest dew! | |
| Bulls, that walk the pastures in kingly-flashing coats! | |
| Laurel, ivy, vine, wreathed for feasts not few! | |
| You that build the shade-roof, and you that court the rays, | |
| You that leap besprinkling the rock stream-rent: | 90 |
| He has been our fellow, the morning of our days; | |
| Us he chose for housemates, and this way went. | |
| God! of whom music | |
| And song and blood are pure, | |
| The day is never darken’d | 95 |
| That had thee here obscure. | |
| |
