"O Sire," they said, "thou know'st how Hercules Was not content to wait till folk asked aid, But sought the pests among their guarded trees; Thou know'st what name the Theban Cadmus made, And how the bull of Marathon was laid Dead on the fallows of the Athenian land, And how folk worshipped Atalanta's hand.
"Fair would thy son's name look upon the roll Wherein such noble deeds as this are told; And great delight shall surely fill thy soul, Thinking upon his deeds when thou art old, And thy brave heart is waxen faint and cold: Dost thou not know, O King, how men will strive That they, when dead, still in their sons may live?"
He shuddered as they spoke, because he thought, Most certainly a winning tale is this To draw him from the net where he is caught, For hearts of men grow weary of all bliss; Nor is he one to be content with his, If he should hear the trumpet-blast of fame And far-off people calling on his name.
"Good friends," he said, "go, get ye back again. And doubt not I will send you men to slay This pest ye fear: yet shall your prayer be vain If ye with any other speak to-day; And for my son, with me he needs must stay, For mighty cares oppress the Lydian land. Fear not, for ye shall have a noble band."
And with that promise must they be content, And so departed, having feasted well. And yet some god or other ere they went, If they were silent, this their tale must tell To more than one man; therefore it befell, That at the last Prince Atys knew the thing, And came with angry eyes unto the King.
"Father," he said, "since when am I grown vile Since when am I grown helpless of my hands? Or else what folk, with words enwrought with guile Thine ears have poisoned; that when far-off lands My fame might fill, by thy most strange commands I needs must stay within this slothful home, Whereto would God that I had never come?
"What! wilt thou take mine honour quite away Wouldst thou, that, as with her I just have wed I sit among thy folk at end of day, She should be ever turning round her head To watch some man for war apparelled Because he wears a sword that he may use, Which grace to me thou ever wilt refuse?
"Or dost thou think, when thou hast run thy race And thou art gone, and in thy stead I reign, The people will do honour to my place, Or that the lords leal men will still remain, If yet my father's sword be sharp in vain? If on the wall his armour still hang up, While for a spear I hold a drinking-cup?"