How dread Nemea's plague was slain,
And loudly vaunt, grown eloquent,
The rattling heaven-descended spell,
And Cerberus upborne from Hell,—
Yet, even while he tells the story
Of proud and world-renownèd glory,
Telamon applauding—then,
Ay, even then, let him recall
Shy Megara's face—he'd give it all,
All, Hylas, to be young again!"
The wondering boy beheld the gleam
Of tresses mirrored in the spring:
Naught else; yet soft as in a dream,
Those voices sweetly ravishing
Fell on his ear.
He bent more near,
Trembling, amazed,
And wistful gazed—
Grown eager more to hear—
Far down below the cool reflection
And wavy sheen of auburn hair.
But, Eros blest!—what marvel rare,
What more than mortal beauty there,
What coy, what wooing-sweet perfection
Entrancèd held him, bound as in a snare?
No need to urge him now to stay!
