On lighter air. No fairer show than this
Moves on the Attic strand;
No steeds more spotless draw the car of day
Than these gold-hooved that ring along the sacred way.
Full many a youth is there,
Who lies in roses, fearful lest the sun
Slip through the screen to burn his forehead pale;
'Twere well these warriors fair
Should ride with us, and ere the day be done
Breathe the brave sea-smell on the quickening gale.
Or at noontide when we move lazily
Should feel the broad bare light strike from the burnished sea.
O the fair shore,
All thronged and mystical with olive sheen!
And here a passion of white blossom glows,
And here is wondrous store
Of rosier bloom, and from the tender green
Of the new leaves peeps out the brier rose;
Gleams the pale lemon on pale lemon-trees,
And golden-ripe the fruit of famed Hesperides.
Look, Agathon! Beside the silver-grey
Of yon blunt olive — look! What is't that hies?
The flutter of white raiment — nymph or maid?
Haste, Petale, away!
For where a pool in shadowed hollow lies
The young Narcissus in his hair doth braid
Bright new-born flowers, and the boy, I ween.
Will die for his own love, if thou wilt not be seen.
See, in the cleft between those soft brown hills.
How the goats clamber! See
The long-cloaked herdsman, how he strides before!
Herdsman? 'Tis Phœbus leads them by the rills.
If such a thing may be.
Push in, old pilot, nearer to the shore.
For we would see this god in country guise,
Who toils awhile with men ere yet he mount the skies.
The hills are all alive!
The fauns are out, and from the soft low brake
A satyr peers, a njrmph starts up to fly.
Where the light shadows drive
Along the slope, oh! doth he sleep or wake.
Who in such utter stillness there doth lie.
That the lithe lizard darts across his breast.
And o'er him hangs the lark with rapture half-expressed?
Methinks from out the vineyard cold and bare
He hither stole to dream
Of autumn's glory and the laden vine.
Swinging from tree to tree in drowsy air.
And vats o'erbrimmed with purple. Well I deem
'Tis Ampelus who loves the lord of wine,
'Tis young-eyed Ampelus who slumbers here,
And sees 'mid all his rout the jocund god appear.
Wreathe round him, dancing nymphs in order meet,
And wake him slowly with your low-voiced song,
And with arms, voices, feet,
In harmony the tender strain prolong,
Till ope those eyes for laughter once again.
And the young faun in glee leaps down toward the main.
Alas! we rest not here.
Nor dream with him beside the sunny shore.
What if we dare a splendid deed — to fly
Beyond the Italian coasts, nor longer fear
The outer ocean, and so come no more
In these safe seas to lie.
But, passing o'er the waters wild and grey.
Find a new race to rule beyond the dying day.
More knowledge still we seek.
More potent arts to sway the souls of men:
Beyond far western seas perchance may dwell
New scholars for the Greek,
New place for temples fair on hill or glen;
Methinks the mighty waters swell
With prophecy; and where the sun sinks down.
Slow rises, like a mist, full many a stately town.
Vain, vain! rash tongue beware!
Is there no god to scourge us for our pride?
Let us be wise, my Agathon, nor dare
On unknown course so frail a bark to guide.
When thou and I are on the inland sea.
What place in all the world so fair for me and thee?
Shake out the sail,
And cease with toiling oar to vex the foam:
The shade creeps up the hill, a single star
In the deep sky is pale:
The goats move slowly home;
And from the rocks afar.
Where, like a waving veil, the thin mist clings.
Sweet as a dream of old the fabled siren sings.
