Apollo left the golden Muse And shepherded a mortal’s sheep, Theocritus of Syracuse!
To mock the giant swain that woo’s The sea-nymph in the sunny deep, Apollo left the golden Muse.
Afield he drove his lambs and ewes, Where Milon and where Battus reap, Theocritus of Syracuse!
To watch thy tunny-fishers cruise Below the dim Sicilian steep Apollo left the golden Muse.
Ye twain did loiter in the dews, Ye slept the swain’s unfever’d sleep, Theocritus of Syracuse!
That Time might half with _his_ confuse Thy songs,—like his, that laugh and leap,— Theocritus of Syracuse, Apollo left the golden Muse!
ἐπει καὶ τοῦτον ὀῖομαι ἀθανάτοισιν ἔυχεσθαι·. Πάντες δὲ θεῶν χατέουσ’ ἄνθρωποι.
“Once CAGN was like a father, kind and good, But He was spoiled by fighting many things; He wars upon the lions in the wood, And breaks the Thunder-bird’s tremendous wings; But still we cry to Him,—_We are thy brood_— _O Cagn_, _be merciful_! and us He brings To herds of elands, and great store of food, And in the desert opens water-springs.”
So Qing, King Nqsha’s Bushman hunter, spoke, Beside the camp-fire, by the fountain fair, When all were weary, and soft clouds of smoke Were fading, fragrant, in the twilit air: And suddenly in each man’s heart there woke A pang, a sacred memory of prayer.
As one that for a weary space has lain Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, Where that Ææan isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain, And only shadows of wan lovers pine, As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again,— So gladly, from the songs of modern speech Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, And through the music of the languid hours, They hear like ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
_Suggested by a female head in wax_, _of unknown date_, _but supposed to be either of the best Greek age_, _or a work of Raphael or Leonardo_. _It is now in the Lille Museum_.
Ah, mystic child of Beauty, nameless maid, Dateless and fatherless, how long ago, A Greek, with some rare sadness overweighed, Shaped thee, perchance, and quite forgot his woe! Or Raphael thy sweetness did bestow, While magical his fingers o’er thee strayed, Or that great pupil taught of Verrocchio Redeemed thy still perfection from the shade